like i remember you
by ur boy jack kennedy
Summary: Sherlock and John as teenagers, have a summer full of passion together.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft hears it most nights.

First is the tapping. It only usually takes one. The noise is a small stone hitting Sherlock's window-pane. The glass rattles in the frame, and wakes all in range. Of course, Mycroft can't understand why the window is even closed. The summer nights are unbearable, the humidity keeping every window open.

But not Sherlock's.

Mycroft listens as he rouses slowly, muttering to himself, and pushing up the glass. He leans from the sill (Mycroft knows because he's seen, and he's kept quiet about it) to hear a voice. The voice of his little blonde paramour.

"I can't keep you long," He says, and there's passion and soul and anticipation fizzing up in that voice, waiting to burst free. "Three hours, at most, but I have to work-"

"Ugh, work. Make it clear which you value more," Mycroft hears Sherlock climb out of the window, deft and precise. He hears the rattle of the gutter against the brickwork, and then the swish of the grass as feet pad across it.

Then, there's the soft, wet sounds of kissing that no brother should have to hear most nights. Sherlock's paramour brings a light, and a coat. They continue down the ground, Sherlock in a nightshirt and coat, and John wrapped up, ready as ever to be at Sherlock's side. Mycroft hears them laugh, and he hears them joke.

What he does not hear is the want and lust in the cherry orchard. Where Sherlock gasps against the tree bark and wails as if he's in pain, and God, he nearly is, by the way john's pretty little mouth works, in the subtleties of the tongue and of the lips...the warmth of the throat.

It's in the disused boathouse that the trouble really starts. Sherlock remembers the first time.

He'd said 'eyes on me', and that's just what John had done, removing his jumper slowly, and then his trousers, until he stood proud, naked in the dim of a lamp. it was strange, because Sherlock just looked at him for the longest time. As if he'd every idea what to do, but not the foggiest how to begin.

So John walked over in the dim, eyes on Sherlock, and unbutton the nightshirt, eyes on Sherlock. Until Sherlock was also clothes-less in the dusty air. The boathouse was cold.

"Eyes on me," John murmured, before he put that clever little mouth of his back to work. And Sherlock? Sherlock choked.

The first time was in June. It's the heat of July now.

Some hours later, Mycroft stirs again to the noise of voices, and to the faint shining light. Mussed, sated, Sherlock rattles back up the drainpipe and in through the open window. He falls into a dreamless sleep with a faint smile playing upon his lips. It's not as if Mycroft is a fool, he knows what has occurred, just as he sees it all over Sherlock's posture, in the little marks on his throat. Marks that other seventeen-year-old private students have much less of.

The first time Mycroft realized that, a thought had sprung to mind. He wondered what John would look like naked. In his dreams he saw the blonde adolescent standing in the doorway to his room, completely naked, and glowing against the darkness, eyes on Mycroft. He rolled over, back to the doorway. And let the illusion be. 


	2. Chapter 2

Police Constable Lestrade cannot complain about his job. It pays well, it keeps the peace, n it's something he does enjoy. No, the worst part of the job is the location. A sleepy little village in the north of Hertfordshire.

And the worst crime is stealing.

For some kids, that's sweets and games and things of a kind of value. He understands. Sometimes, you have to steal to eat, and he's a soft spot for them.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't steal because he's hungry. He steals because John is. They go together, around the countryside, and they never take any more than a few apples or so. Lestrade can't understand that, and he's never caught up with either to ask them.

John isn't from a family like Sherlock's. He's hungry more often, he's cold more often. So they steal together: John does it to eat, Sherlock is hungry for the thrill. The fences are high and some are barbed wire. If you can't scale a fence, and you can't keep up, you're supposed to be left behind. But Lestrade's seen it.

It was Hurst's farm they'd taken to, and were still picking from the tree when the farmer began shouting. He watched in amusement as they scrambled, Sherlock is one swift movement, up and over the fence, John looking helpless on the other side.

It was right when Sherlock turned and looked at him. As if he were contemplating the notion of leaving. It was in that second Lestrade found tat the Holmes were human.

Over the fence Sherlock went. Then, back over with John.

"Don't," Sherlock insisted, when they were a comfortable distance away. But he was smiling, and had let his eyes betray his heart. John could not thank him, and so kissed him instead.

Lestrade hadn't the heart to arrest either of them. 


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper always fancied herself as a pleasant soul. No, she didn't claim to be very interesting, or very much to look at or talk to, but she was kind, and she was gentle. And when she sets her heart on something, there's nought that can be done.

Molly works in the shop, nothing special, but it funds her little fancies, and it pleases her even more when pretty little things like Sherlock Holmes find themselves in need of something. He's a funny creature, she thinks, with such a perfect face and these bright eyes that look right through you. They're so pretty, but so cold. Sherlock looks at her, and Molly wants to hide in a jumper, into the warm.

She can't afford to be discrete, because Sherlock doesn't see, and he doesn't want to see. So, whenever the chance arises, Molly gazes desperately into his eyes, and jokes about tedious subjects. Anything to keep him talking, keep him there, for as long as possible.

It July, Molly takes the latests shifts and walks through the park to get home. The evenings are warm, and the village is safe, only petty theft ever livening up the streets. She hasn't anything particular on her mind when she hears it.

And right away knows it's him.

From the other side of the hedges by the cherry orchard, he's groaning.

"Shh! -Sherlock, I'm-" Curiously enough, she hears laughter, and words on top of Sherlock's strange, wanton noises. Though, as Molly draws closer though the leaves, something snaps underfoot and she stays for the longest time, just listening. She keeps wondering, did he know she was there? Was he waiting.

"Please, hurry -I c-can't," Sherlock's gasping, and Molly has never heard him sound so needy -so human in all his life. She didn't think it were possible. Adjusting still, she can spy them better through a gap in the foliage.

Sherlock, and his paramour (John,, she thinks that's it)are both naked against the evening air, stark against the green grass, stuck together like bad glue on a get-well card. What makes her swallow a gasp is that John had two of his nimble fingers in Sherlock, and Sherlock can't handle it.

He's feral and his pupils are blown, wriggling like a live wire, making little animalistic noises. It would seem that even the tiniest curl of John's fingers proves too much, and Sherlock sobs, and thrashes, tugging John's dishwater hair in his fists.

"Someone's going to hear us!" He protests, but he's just as wrapped-up, just as obsessed and involved with Sherlock's tight little ass, and his wailing. John looks as if he knows better, knows he should know better and wants to resist. But even Molly can't look away. Can't stop staring as Sherlock squirms some more.

"Christ, fucking-" He's babbling, thrashing wildly and right before her eyes he loses it, blowing his load in a few hot bursts. Sherlock is taught as a bowstring, his face flushed with colour. He looks human, even.

She can't look at him in the same way again. 


End file.
